“Always,” said Gelber.
That was yesterday.
Ava opened her purse—an ice-blue Fendi Peekaboo, another acquisition that had nearly drained her retirement account—and took out a tablet. She’d spent an hour on the train queuing up her reading material.Tatler,OK!,Vogue. She was aware of the newspaper coming down, being carefully folded. A look her way. A polite cough. She was too busy reading her gossip rags to notice.
“You,” the voice was soft, urgent, and somehow conspiratorial.
Ava pretended not to hear.
“You,” Tariq repeated. She glanced in his direction. “What did you hurt?”
“Shoulder,” said Ava, needing a moment to size him up and decide if he were worth the effort. She returned her attention to the tablet. David Beckham had thrown an outlandish surprise party for Victoria at Covent Garden. The guest list was impressive. Elton John and David Furnish, Jennifer Lawrence. Music by Brandi Carlile.
“Knee,” said Tariq.
“You’re going to live forever,” said Ava, eyes glued to her tablet. “You and your knee.”
“As long as I make it to fifty,” said Tariq.
“Fifty? You’ll be ancient.”
“Practically fermenting.” A laugh. Much too warm. Much too friendly. “My name’s Tariq.”
American English without a trace of an accent. All those years in California had paid off. Ava lowered the tablet and for the first time gave him her full attention. “I know who you are. I saw the car outside.” She inclined the tablet so he could see it. “You’re not in this week’s issue.”
“I’ve been busy,” said Tariq. “Travel.”
“Anywhere exciting?” she asked, holding his gaze. Who did you meet in Israel? All those stops at David Ben-Gurion Airport. And what about Damascus? Tehran? Not a playboy’s usual itinerary.
“Here and there,” said Tariq. “Mostly business.”
“I expected Rome or Ibiza.”
“Much closer to home, I’m afraid.”
Ava feigned a pout. “No time for pleasure? I’m disappointed.”
“Maybe a little,” he said, eyes flashing. “But shhh ... don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” Ava knew better than to press him on the subject. Another day. “By the way, I prefer the Ferrari.”
“It was a gift, the Bugatti. From my brother.”
Jabr al-Sabah. Age thirty-nine. Heir to the throne. Impediment to his brother’s ambition. And from the look in Tariq’s eyes: enemy. “Generous of him,” said Ava.
“Not exactly,” said Tariq. “But I took it all the same.”
“You’re not close?”
“Who said that?” asked Tariq.
“You wanted something else,” said Ava. “That’s it. A Porsche, maybe.”
“Maybe,” said Tariq, staring at her a little too hard.
“This your first time?” asked Ava, pleasantly, deflecting the hard gaze. “Stem cells, I mean.”
“I had surgery a month ago,” said Tariq. “Ripped my meniscus to shreds. Silly accident. Bobsledding ...” No, Ava wasn’t interested. “Anyway, Dr. Lutz suggested the stem cells to speed up the recovery. And you?”
